Late Thursday afternoon, my manager had just given me my annual evaluation. When I returned to my desk, my coworker broke the news to me that Michael Jackson had died. I was shocked. But that was it. No tears, no real sadness. I watched a portion of Dateline’s special later that night. I read the updates that poured out of Twitter and Facebook, a mixture of sadness and mockery. Not wanting to get sucked in, I avoided it like any other media event Michael Jackson was involved in.

News of his death brought back memories of “Billie Jean”, the Moonwalk on the Motown 25 special, Eddie Van Halen playing on “Beat It”, the “Thriller” video. However, I steered clear of being a fan when the weirdness took over. I really thought he could put out a new album of great music, but I think he tried too hard to top himself instead of being himself. And the media circus always outdid what he put out from the studio. From the plastic surgeries to the accusations to the trial, I cared less about Michael Jackson.

After nearly 2 days since the announcement, the sadness is starting to kick in. I tried searching for my copies of Thriller and Bad but could not find them. Frustrated, I played disc 1 of HIStory, and I had forgotten how awesome his music is; my childhood has come back to me. He will be missed by millions, myself included. Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.

This doesn’t really bother me all that much. We watch KSDK/NBC for our news. The only time we watch CBS is to catch Survivor or Amazing Race (although I’ve kinda watched How I Met Your Mother in recent months). So when it comes to time to catch these shows, I can pick it up over the air (using the new digital converters as of Feb 9, of course). Otherwise, not my loss. At least, not unless Charter caves to KMOV and starts charging an additional body part to the arm and a leg that I’m already paying for to get their services.

District Superintendent Sam McGowen said that he thinks the penalty is fair and that administrators in the school east of St. Louis were following policy in the student handbook. It states: “Displays of affection should not occur on the school campus at any time. It is in poor taste, reflects poor judgment, and brings discredit to the school and to the persons involved.”

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“It’s a pregnancy test.”

I said nothing.

“It’s a positive pregnancy test,” she says.

“Is it yours?”

“Yes!”

“Are you serious?”

“Close your eyes and put your hand out,” she says to me.

I do as I’m told. I’m expecting candy, chocolate, maybe a homemade cookie baked by a patient of hers. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel edible. It was made of plastic. My first thought was a handy dandy toothpick holder, a freebie from my employer, something I can probably pick up on my own from HR. I opened my eyes to see what looked like a white plastic letter opener. I sat there, quiet (only because I didn’t know what it was).

“That’s a pregnancy test,” she tells me.

“It is?”

“Yes. It’s positive.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth hung open as I stared at the test in my hand.

“Really?”

She nodded.

“You’re pregnant?”

“Yep!”

When we got married, Christine’s clock was ticking. But we couldn’t conceive, no matter what we tried. It got to the point where we both accepted the fact that it wasn’t gonna happen. I think we were both ok with that, but sometimes I wonder “what if”. Daniel is my stepson. I treat him as my own, but I constantly remind myself that he is not my child. When we picked up Salem from the pound, he helped fill that void. I spoil that dog rotten; he is my child, my son, my boy (even if he has four legs and a lot of fur).

Needless to say, Christine’s news was a pleasant surprise and wonderful to hear.

“Well, this changes everything!” I said.

“Yep!”